


measure your life out in coffee spoons

by notbang



Category: Crazy Ex-Girlfriend (TV)
Genre: Gen, One Shot Collection, Shenanigans, Unlikely Friendships, and nathaniel/maya is my crack ship, heather + nathaniel is my brotp, late-night d&ms, s3 finale-related irony, starfish gazing, there are mentions of r/n
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2019-06-11 07:37:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15310617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notbang/pseuds/notbang
Summary: A collection of miscellaneous CEG oneshots.





	1. senseless

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt 'senseless'.

“I am going to  _literally_  killTim.”

Rebecca glances up from stirring her coffee to see Paula’s knuckles glowing white where her fingers wrap around the ice cube trays that have been unceremoniously dumped by the sink, picking them up only to slam them back down against the bench in agitation.

“If I had a freezer chest large enough, I’d stuff his big dumb Canadian body into it and tie him up by those stupid suspenders he always wears. And then I’d fill that chest up with ice cubes made in agonising three hour allotments, one ineffectual tray at a time and when finally, there was no more room for cubes, I’d… switch off the power and let him slowly drown in the slushy of disappointment it would result in,” Paula finishes, scrunching up her face and fists at the same time.

Rebecca blinks.

“Wow. Okay. Still not letting that one go, huh? Well, seems like as good a day as any for a senseless murder in the break room,” she says, brows raised.

“It’s not senseless,” Paula spits out, “if there’s good reason for it. And he would  _only_ have himself to blame.”

Gazing absently at the missing dog poster on the refrigerator, Rebecca spaces out for a moment and eventually blinks back into focus to find Paula staring at her, eyes wide, hand on hip, still enraged. She shakes her head in apology.

“Sorry. You just had me imagining a little Chicago-esque musical number in my head there. It was a mash-up of  _Cell Block Tango_  and  _If You’re Good to Mama_ —aaand you don’t get my music theatre references. It’s fine. Just know that I have cast you as a cabaret songstress goddess, and the costumes and lighting design were very flattering.”

Paula tilts her head and gives a bemused but approving nod.

“So I know it’s wrong to romanticise our extremely flawed criminal justice system,” Rebecca begins, “but I always secretly kind of imagined we’d one day wind up in jail together for one of our harebrained schemes, where we’d slowly but surely infiltrate the ward and unite our fellow inmates against the corrupted powers that be through some ingenious plan. But now you wanna serve a life sentence without me?”

“Oh honey,” Paula says with an incredulous look. “Please. I am too smart to get caught and you are  _way_  too cute for prison.”

“Aww, thank you,” Rebecca replies nasally, beaming over her mug and taking a satisfied sip of her coffee.

Tim chooses that exact unfortunate moment to breeze into the break room, the tall glass containing the last dregs of his ice tea in hand.

“Get outta here, you sorry excuse for a shyster,” Rebecca warns, slipping seamlessly into her transatlantic accent. “You’ve kept Big Red from dipping her bill in her cold cup of joe one too many times. This dame is willing to do anything to keep out of the cooler and you’re about to be chilled off.”

“What?”

“The ice trays, dumbass,” she clarifies, rolling her eyes. “How many times do you need to be publicly humiliated before you learn to fill them up after you empty them? Paula is an honest, hard-working hero to this office—one that has saved your lazy legal brief writing butt on more than one occasion and she deserves not only your respect, but the opportunity to consume her ice coffee at the appropriate temperature, unhindered by an inappropriate wait time.”

“What are you talking about?” Tim asks, confused. “I refilled the tray. I used a jug and did it straight in the freezer to avoid the slooshing and everything, just like Maya suggested.”

“Then what,” Paula demands through gritted teeth, “are these?”

“Oh, those are the old trays,” Tim says, dismissively. “We really go through them in summer, so Maya bought bigger ones that hold more ice. She even threw in a novelty one for good measure.”

Rebecca swings open the freezer door to investigate.

“Oh, yeah, Paula—there’s plenty of ice,” she confirms. “Some of them are shaped like baby animals. Oh my gosh, that’s so adorable. You can have a little ducky floating in your drink. Isn’t that adorable? Also is it morbid and weird if I put one in my coffee just to watch it melt?”

“We are out of milk though,” Tim supplies helpfully. “The refrigerator is  _crammed_  today—I guess no one cleared it out last week—and there wasn’t enough space for my lunchbox, so I poured out the rest of the carton to make room.” He chuckles to himself. “Nobody even uses the milk, right? That’s why there’s creamer.”

Rebecca’s eyes go wide and she slams the door shut, pushing him hard between his shoulder blades, urging him into a head start as Paula begins to vibrate with unbridled fury.

“I’ll come visit you in the clink!” she calls after them in a sing-song, leaning back against the counter as Tim scurries away, Paula striding purposefully after him. “Don’t start any revolutionary riots without me.”


	2. life aquatic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set somewhere in 3x04.

“Dude…  _whaaaaat_  are you doing? And for real—why are you still in my house?”

When he doesn’t immediately respond Heather pauses and takes in the defeated slope of Nathaniel’s shoulders and the toasted bagel lying untouched on the bench beside him and sighs; he continues to stare glumly into the aquarium he’s perched himself in front of with a dramatic sense of melancholy, apparently oblivious to her exasperation at his ongoing presence. She rolls her eyes but softens somewhat, her tone begrudging but less abrasive when she speaks again.

“Are you okay? You’re totally, like, gazing into the depths of Estrella’s soul, or something.”

He turns, finally, and looks up at her blankly.

“Estrella? That’s the name of my starfish—she’s a project for my marine biology class. I’m a student,” she adds by way of explanation.

“Oh,” Nathaniel says, straightening a little and rolling his shoulders. He gives an embarrassed shrug. “I guess I… like fish?”

“Oh, starfish aren’t fish,” Heather corrects, almost apologetically, crossing her arms and leaning back against the counter. “Yeah, it’s a common misconception, probably because the name is so misleading, but they’re actually echinoderms. It’s Greek for hedgehog skin, so.”

Nathaniel isn’t sure what to do with that particular piece of information, but he dips his head in acknowledgement anyway.

“Are you going to eat that?”

“Hmm?”

He raises his eyebrows questioningly at her and she jerks her chin at the plate in front of him.

“Oh, that. Probably—probably not.” He wriggles his long fingers in its general direction dismissively with a grimace. “I don’t do carbs.”

Heather opens her mouth like she’s going to question that logic but ultimately decides against it, widening her eyes at him instead.

“Okay, so—good talk. I’m going to—”

“I thought about it,” he interrupts, sitting up straighter again. “I was going to. I saw them on the counter, and it’s just—Rebecca has them, in the break room sometimes, and—I don’t even know. It’s stupid. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know why I’m here,” he says, glancing up at her, cringing, “in your house. I don’t normally do things like this. This is not a way that I behave.”

“Yeah… Rebecca sure did a number on you, huh?”

He drops his gaze back to the counter, tilting his head as if deciding whether or not to answer that.

“Did you… did you see any of this coming?” he asks, instead. When she doesn’t respond right away he clarifies, “Were there signs? Should I—should  _we_ —have seen this coming? It just kind of seems like something you should see coming.”

Heather slides her eyes heavenward for a moment, considering.

“I mean, yeah. Totally, probably, in retrospect. But also, no? Rebecca’s always been kind of a mess, but she’s a high functioning mess, so you can’t really beat yourself up for not knowing what she had going on. I live with her, and I had no idea.”

“I thought I knew her pretty well.”

“Riiiight—because she let you pound her gavel once or twice? Yeah, that’s  _not_  how that works. Carnal knowledge is just a euphemism. It’s not, like, a level up.”

Nathaniel huffs, looking down at his hands, gesturing, matter of fact.

“That’s not—that wasn’t the only reason. I just thought… I  _felt_ … like we understood each other, is all.”

“I guess we all think we know someone until they show us we don’t,” Heather offers. “She  _did_ look pretty smoking in that dress, though, so—I get it, dude.” When he glances up at her, surprised, she explains, “Rebecca has a song and dance routine for, like, basically everything she does. We share a bathroom. I know when home girl thinks she’s getting some.”

He smiles wanly at that, exhaustion clearly written into his features. Heather can’t help but pity him, just a little.

“Cool. So I’m going out for brunch. Let yourself out when you’re ready, I guess. There’s some kale in the fridge—you look like you might be into that—but I’m not sure how long it’s been there, and you should definitely wash it first. Also, since apparently you live here now, if you could, like, take the trash out, that would be great. Rent’s due on the second of the month. Thaaaaanks.”

Nathaniel offers her a noncommittal wave over his shoulder as she leaves, drops his shoulders, turns his attention back to the tank and sighs.


	3. things you said at 1am

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt 'things you said at 1am'.

Nathaniel blinks a few times when he steps out into the passageway, confused by the lack of pitch darkness that greets him.

The television’s on, which is weird because he’s pretty sure he distinctly remembers switching it off after Rebecca fell asleep halfway through whatever inane high school drama she was watching this week, relieved he could finally review his case notes in peace save for her undignified snores into the back of the couch. Thirst outweighs his sleep-fogged brain’s desire to investigate further, though, and he continues on his path into Rebecca’s kitchen.

“Oh heyyyy,” a voice drawls, startling him in his survey of the contents fridge. The pile of blankets on the couch shifts and transforms into a shape vaguely resembling Heather in the shadows, her blue-green highlights illuminated in the soft glow from the screen. “Oh, good—you’re wearing pants. That’s always a bonus.”

Nathaniel shuts the fridge door and straightens up with a frown, crossing his arms over his bare chest a little self-consciously.

“You’re up late,” he observes.

“You’re… here,” Heather deadpans back at him. “Oh, I’m sorry—I thought we were just, like, stating the obvious.”

Pulling a face at her he swings the door back open, fumbling around until he finds what he’s looking for before heading into the living room, stopping beside the armchair to take a swig from his water bottle. He jerks his chin at the screen.

“What are you watching?”

Her eyebrows shoot up her forehead. “Dude, you did  _not_  just ask me that.”

“What?”

“Have you seriously never seen  _The Lion King?_ Does Rebecca know this about you? Because I’m pretty sure it’s one of her major deal-breakers.”

“Of course I’ve seen  _The Lion King_ ,” he scoffs defensively. “At some point in my life. As a child. Have I retained any of it? No. In case you weren’t aware, I’m a lawyer. I’ve kind of got more important things to store in my brain than cartoons.”

“Wooow. I can’t believe Rebecca is dating a Disney-illiterate douchebag. I mean, it’s not the most confusing thing about the two of you being together, but you do realise she like, lives her life like she’s in some fairytale musical, or something.”

“I’m sorry—did you just call me an illiterate douchebag?”

“Disney-illiterate. I like to keep my insults precise.”

“Hmm.”

Against his better judgment, Nathaniel finds himself dropping down onto the couch beside her.

* * *

“Is there any particular reason you’re watching a children’s movie at one a.m. on a weeknight?”

She’s swung her legs up in front of her to make more space, sitting cross legged with a tub of Ben and Jerry’s cradled in her lap and eating it straight with a  soup spoon. She hadn’t bothered with offering him any, instead tossing an unopened bag of trail mix at him with a sigh and announcing it was the best she could do.

Nathaniel picks idly at the pepitas.

Heather shrugs. “I mean, I’m a bartender and a student, so. I have a different concept of time to you. What’s your excuse?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says. He pauses, tongue skimming the front of his teeth. “I’m… not used to sharing a bed. I’m kind of a light sleeper.”

Heather hums around her spoonful of Cherry Garcia in acknowledgement.

* * *

Nathaniel wasn’t lying when he said he’d seen  _The Lion King—_ he has a vague recollection of watching it in the cinema as a child and he’s aware of the general gist of it; it’s in the title, after all. It doesn’t stop his eyes from going wide as he gestures wildly at the screen when Mufasa falls to his death in an antelope stampede, leaving a distraught Simba to gingerly prod at his lifeless body.

“What the hell was that? This is supposed to be for kids! You can’t just kill off the main character’s father like that,” he protests, fidgeting in his seat and pulling the cushion he’s been holding tighter against his chest. “That’s just… that’s upsetting. For the children, I mean. It would be upsetting for children.”

“Oh,” Heather says, casting her eyes at him sideways. “Probably stay away from  _Bambi,_ then _._  Rebecca mentioned you might have some mommy issues, so. Zero out of ten, would not recommend.”

He frowns and digs his chin into his cushion.

* * *

When Simba starts to grow his hair out Heather slides to the floor and starts painting her toenails; when he narrowly avoids being mauled by his future mate and finds himself flat on his back, her snarling face dangerously close to his Nathaniel can’t help but huff out a dry laugh of painful recognition.

They both glance up at the shuffling noise coming from the hallway in time to see the back of Rebecca’s sushi pyjamas disappearing through the doorway as she stumbles into the bathroom. When she re-emerges a few minutes later to the sound of the toilet flushing she pauses in the half-light spilling from her bedside lamp, bleary-eyed and scrubbing at her face.

“Oh, are you guys watching a movie without me?” she mumbles, sounding vaguely disappointed but looking for all intents and purposes as if she’s about to fall asleep standing up. “I wanna watch a movie.”

She yawns loudly over the opening notes of what is very clearly about to be a disgusting love song and Nathaniel takes it as his cue to leave, pushing himself to his feet.

“No, no movies. I was just getting some water,” he promises, shepherding her back down the hall towards her bedroom. “Come on, let’s get you back into bed.”

“Hey,” Heather calls out, stopping him briefly in his tracks. He turns to look at her just in time to find her stretching out across the space he just vacated, eyes stubbornly on the screen. “I know I sort of called you a douchebag, but it’s like, cool that you’re back, or whatever. I think Estrella might have missed you. It’s hard to tell, though—that’s kind of just her face.”

It’s too dark to be completely certain, but he’s pretty sure she’s almost smiling.


	4. help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt 'heather + help'.

“Okay. Where is she?”

Nathaniel glances up from his computer to the sight of a very pregnant Heather striding determinedly into the office. He looks to the door, then back to her face, eyebrows raised.

“Hello? Yeah. Hi. I’m Heather. We’ve met. I’m here to see the girl that knocked me up?”

“Rebecca?” he asks. “She’s not here. She’s at a meeting with a client.”

Heather heaves a frustrated groan then seems to force it back into a deep breath as an afterthought, closing her eyes momentarily and reopening them with a sardonic smile.

“Of course she is. I just needed her help, so. It makes sense that she wouldn’t be here.” She shrugs, rapping her fingers idly on her stomach. “It’s fine. It’s fine.”

“Help? Is it, uh, a baby thing?” Nathaniel asks, swallowing and pointing towards her midsection with his pen. “If it’s urgent I could probably get a hold of her. Or Darryl.”

“No, it’s not urgent,” Heather sighs. “It just turns out her spawn is, like, as excitable and high-strung as she is, and it’s bumming me out, so I thought I’d come hold her responsible for imparting the genes that are totally killing my vibe right now.”

“I don’t know,” Nathaniel quips, dryly, “have you met Darryl? He’s kind of the personification of a desperate, over-eager puppy.”

“Yeah, and I definitely get that about him, and his time to share in the blame will come, but the sentient melon breakdancing on my bladder today is one hundred percent Bunch baby.” Off his blank look she adds, “They do this thing at the doctor’s office where you can take photos holding the fruit or vegetable your fetus is currently the size of. I personally find the association with consumables kind of disturbing, but Darryl is super into it for some reason. Anyway, I’m currently carrying a honeydew inside of me. Pretty badass, right?”

Nathaniel slides his thumb and forefinger to his temples, applying pressure. Thinking too much about the way Rebecca went from calling it quits on their relationship to having a literal human baby with  _Darryl_ of all people has the tendency give him an instant headache.

Heather turns away from him and crosses her arms, surveying Rebecca’s choice of wall art.

“Cool digs. This looks familiar. Bet it brings back fond memories of that time she ran away and you camped out in her bedroom, huh?”

He’s not sure how to respond to that so he chooses not to, and when he gathers she isn’t planning on leaving any time soon he gestures to Rebecca’s desk.

“Do you need to sit down?”

She considers.

“I could sit. It turns out pregnancy is like, fifty percent backache.” She tilts her head at him. “Which one’s comfier? Yours or hers? It’s yours, right? If her choice in mattress is anything to go by.”

He stares at her for a moment, bewildered, before rising reluctantly from his black leather chair and offering it to her, still not entirely sure what’s happening. Heather lowers herself unceremoniously into it, leaning back and heaving a long sigh, and after hovering awkwardly for a few seconds Nathaniel makes his way around to Rebecca’s side of the room and takes her seat instead.

“I can’t be in my house anymore,” Heather announces after a brief silence. “I kind of let my boyfriend move in with us and immediately followed that up by agreeing to incubate Darryl’s baby, and now he’s just always around, like, being supportive, or whatever. And I’m a super chill person all on my own, so right now the energy in the house is just  _too_ chill, you know what I’m saying?” He doesn’t, exactly, and he’s sure his face says as much, but she continues on, regardless. “So I thought I’d come see Rebecca and talk about my problems so she could ignore me a whole bunch and make the situation about her and whatever drama she has going on at the moment, and then I wouldn’t have to think about how I can’t see my toes anymore, or all the foods I want but can’t have, or how there’s a literal parasite inhabiting my womb right now and absorbing all of my nutrients.”

“That sounds… horrifying,” Nathaniel offers with a cheerful grimace of a smile.

“It’s fine,” she dismisses. And then, “Do you have drama? I can’t have wine right now, so I need drama.”

“I’m going to get Paula,” Nathaniel says, pushing to his feet and heading for the door.

“Sit down,” Heather says, somehow delivering it almost like a question but making it very clear it’s not a suggestion, and he doesn’t think he’s ever heard anything so simultaneously calm and terrifyingly commanding before.

He drops obediently back into Rebecca’s chair.

“It’s just—Rebecca literally never listens to a single word I say. I love her, and everything—but she’s kind of a terrible friend probably eighty five percent of the time.”

“I guess she can be a little… self-involved,” he agrees, dipping his head in acknowledgement.

“I mean, that’s probably not an issue for you though right, since the two of you have been hooking up behind your girlfriend’s back a whole lot? I get that Rebecca has a total complex for unavailable guys because of her monumental daddy issues and not to judge, like, at all—but for the record, what you’re doing is kind of douchey. And I was Miss Douche, so I’m allowed to make that assessment objectively.” Ignoring Nathaniel’s mortified expression, she pulls out a chocolate bar from her pocket and proceeds to take a sizeable bite, talking around the mouthful. “Also, while we’re on the topic, I’d appreciate it if you two could maybe  _not_ have copious amounts of sex in the walk in pantry at Home Base? I’m not saying I haven’t done it myself once or twice, but now I’m a regional manager I’m trying really hard to have, like, standards, and stuff.”

He opens his mouth to flounder for a response but is cut short when Heather hunches forward suddenly, eyes scrunching shut in a pained wince, hands pressing to her belly.

Nathaniel immediately sits up and pales, panicking a little, unable to stop his mind from leaping to the terrifying scenario where he and George get stuck delivering Rebecca and Darryl’s baby in the middle of their shared law office, and  _god, where the hell is Paula?_

“Dude… you don’t look so good. Are you feeling okay?”

He tugs at his collar, clearing his throat.

“Me? I’m—I’m fine. What about you?” He jerks his chin at her, frowning and gesturing at her with his fingers. “You’re, uh, holding your stomach and making a face, there.”

“Oh. Yeah. That’s just the indigestion. It’s a real downer, but I’m kind of just used to it by now. Plus I’m feeling a little agitated, and my body likes to reject all negative emotions by manifesting them as inconvenient physical discomforts.”

He watches her for a moment, hesitating, then gets up and walks around to retrieve his yellow water polo ball, indicating towards her and tossing it gently in her direction when she dutifully holds up her hands.

“I used to play right wing for Stanford. Sometimes I still like to throw a few nets. Helps me clear my head,” he explains. Then, after a beat, “It drives Rebecca crazy.”

Heather nods.

“Yeah, okay. I can work with that.”

When Rebecca eventually comes back from her meeting two hours later it’s to find Nathaniel settled in at her desk, pouring over a case file, nose buried in his notes and Heather, curled up in his chair opposite, head pillowed to the side on her scrunched up jacket, snoring, sound asleep.


	5. exercise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt 'nathaniel/maya + exercise'.

He takes one look at her comically wide-eyed expression—momentarily interrupted by her hand coming up to shove her glasses further up her sweat-shiny nose—and stops dead in his tracks; WhiJo bumps into the back of him with an unimpressed grunt that he barely registers, distracted as he is by her blinding fluoro pink crop top gaudily emblazoned with the words  _CHECK MEOWT,_ bracketed by a pair of cat ears.

“No,” he says immediately, eyes fluttering shut in a way he hope suggests he expects her to be gone by the time he opens them, though to no avail—she’s still hovering awkwardly by the rowing machine, mouth agape but lips starting to move in an attempt to formulate words he has exactly zero interest in listening to, prompting him to indicate the exit with a no-nonsense flick of his wrist.

“Beginner’s yoga starts at three,” WhiJo calls helpfully after her, slinging his towel around his neck and watching her meek retreat with a wave before slapping Nathaniel on the back and making a beeline for the shoulder press in the far back corner.


	6. undone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt 'undone'. A cracktastic AU to 3x09.

Rebecca Bunch has unhinged him.

Poked, prodded, reshaped, redefined and then ultimately unraveled and undone him—it’s the only explanation for his idiotic, unprofessional and decidedly dangerously-skirting-the-lines-of-illegal behaviour. Rebecca Bunch dumped him and he’s losing his goddamn mind.

It’s the only explanation Nathaniel can come up with for how he finds himself in the back of an Uber in the early hours of Saturday morning, drunkenly making out with the office administrative assistant on their way back to her apartment.

*

He’s well on his way to seeing double by the time he bumps into her at the bar, so it takes him a second. There’s something naggingly familiar about the mousy girl that slides into the seat next to him, struggling to get a leg up on the slightly too-high stool, her phone gripped tightly in one hand.

Nathaniel does a double-take, then groans.

“Ugh, what are you doing here? And don’t you wear glasses?”

He gestures with a splayed palm at her face, and Maya’s hand goes instinctively up to her nose then stops when she realises there’s nothing there. She has to comically raise her minuscule voice for him to hear her above the music.

“I’m trying out contacts. And binge drinking. My self-esteem is currently at an uncharacteristic low and I caved to peer pressure and crushing societal expectations regarding beauty standards and how girls should just wanna have fun. Do you eat comfort carbs now?”

He looks down at the bowl of fries in front of him and then back up at her face. If he squints a little it’s definitely the same girl that leaves her weird arm-shaped backscratcher lying around the office in a questionable show of hygiene but if he doesn’t then she doesn’t and that almost, concerningly, works for him.

Maya looks down at her phone for a moment then huffs, shoving it aggressively into her purse.

In an unexpected twist she kisses him first, taking him by surprise so that all he can do is stare at her for a moment, her eyes impossibly close as she presses her mouth firmly against his. She makes to pull back when she realises he isn’t reciprocating but then he shuts off his brain and stumbles into her, hands grabbing blindly at whatever they can find.

He’s just a guy who’s been dumped, after all. He can’t be held responsible for his actions.

*

Maya is as impossibly tiny as he is tall, and the absurdity of the height difference doesn’t make it easy on either of them. He guesses she knows what he’s thinking as he trails his eyes over the surfaces of her apartment, calculating.

“My housemate has a swing,” she offers helpfully. “Clips right over the door.”

He’d be lying if he said his curiosity wasn’t piqued but he’s not sure either of them is currently coordinated enough to pull that off, and the bed is still looking like the easiest option. He steers them in what he hopes is the appropriate direction, helping her shed his shirt along the way. She’s less efficient in dealing with her dress and the confusing arrangement of undergarments beneath it, so he sits down on the end of her comforter and waits. She disappears into her walk-in robe.

“So even though this is just a one-night stand, I want you to know this bedroom is a safe space, and I don’t kink shame.”

She re-emerges wearing a pair of black Minnie Mouse ears, the pink sequinned bow fastened between them flopping down over her flushed forehead. She pushes it up in lieu of her glasses.

“It’s the best I could do on short notice. So anyway, what’s your fursona?”

He opens his mouth but no words come out because has no idea what the hell she’s talking about but he doesn’t get a chance to answer anyway because she’s on him again, launching herself into his lap with more energy than he thinks he’s ever seen her exhibit. He lets himself lean back into the mattress—she seems surprisingly happy to drive whatever the hell it is they’re doing and he figures her on top is probably the best way for them to go about this, anyway—and pats absently at his side pockets for his wallet, trying to remember if he still has a condom on hand.

Maya draws back suddenly, breathless.

“What are your feelings on three-ways? Would you participate in an MMF or no? As a loud and proud bisexual woman I definitely enjoy the MFF dynamic and feel like the alternative could be a bit much to deal with but I try to keep an open mind.”

He scrunches his face up and twists his head back on the pillows, heaving a heavy sigh.

“I don’t…” He shakes his head. “Do you always talk this much?”

“My friends tell me I’m a rambling drunk, which is why I normally stick to Shirley Temples. Sorry. Sometimes I lack boundaries and alcohol destroys the very delicate filter that holds back some of my more progressive thoughts. It’s okay, though—like I said, my apartment is a judgement free zone, so feel free to unload about whatever.”

“You need to take those off,” he says, jerking his chin up at the ears. “You barely look twelve on a good day so this is hard enough for me as it is. How old are you, anyway? You know what—never mind. As long as you’re above the age of consent, I don’t want to know.”

She slides off him, knees curling into her side.

“We ran into each other in a bar, remember?” she says, wringing the mouse ears in her hands. Then, “I think I’m having a quarter-life crisis.”

Something about the despondent look on her face reminds him briefly but agonisingly of Rebecca and he groans, scrubbing his hand over his eyes. He can’t deal with this right now.

There’s a chirrup from the nightstand and she reaches across him, narrowly avoiding elbowing him in the nose. After a minute Maya looks up from where her fist is clenching around her phone, jaw set defiantly.

“Have you ever tried cocaine?”

*

Nathaniel can’t get through to his guy so they settle for her bottle of peach schnapps instead, drinking out of coffee mugs, cross-legged on her living room carpet.

“You’re not missing out on much,” he assures her. “It was probably a bad idea anyway. We can not and say we did. Just tell your friends it was underwhelming. First times usually are.”

Maya downs the rest of her drink and rises to her feet. She’s pulled on his chambray shirt and she’s swimming in it, the soft blue-grey swamping her insignificant frame.

“So,” she says with renewed confidence. “Enough talking. Enough drinking. Let’s Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone this thing. Hashtag Crazy Stupid Love. Hashtag you raise me up. Hashtag the lion and the mouse. Hashtag… I’m all out of hashtags but let’s do it. Let’s go.”

“I don’t know if you know this,” Nathaniel says wryly, gazing up at her from the floor, “but you’re literally speaking another language right now.”

“You’ve never seen Crazy Stupid Love?” When he continues to stare at her blankly she tries again. “How about its seminal precursor, Dirty Dancing?”

“ _Ohh_ ,” he says, pointing at her as understanding dawns on him. He pulls himself to his feet. “You want me to do the whole lift thing, right? Chicks dig that for some reason. Yeah, okay. What do you weigh, like ninety pounds? I could bench press you in my sleep. Let’s do it.”

She gauges the appropriate run-up and he catches her by the waist and hoists her over his head, surprising himself with the smoothness with which he manages to carry off the manoeuvre despite his inebriated state.

Maya lets out a tiny squeak, her small frame tensing in his hands.

He tries to peer up at her and stumbles backwards slightly, earning himself another yelp. Her eyes are scrunched tightly shut.

“Okay up there?”

“Perfect,” she insists, the high-pitch of her voice suggesting otherwise.

She doesn’t seem sure what to do with her legs and he readjusts his grip as she squirms, shifting the delicate illusion of balance he’s barely able to maintain. He realises she’s veering dangerously close to the overhead lamp and sidesteps out of its path.

“So now what?”

“Now you put me down. Only sexy.” The words come out garbled, in a tense and nervous rush. “It’s a tried and true romcom staple.”

He’s not sure he nails the brief but he manages to fumble her back to her feet without dropping her, setting her in front of him, only slightly unsteady.

“Was that seductive? Are you feeling seduced?” she asks, tugging on the hem of his shirt where it’s ridden up over her thighs.

“Sure,” he says, noncommittal. “Consider me seduced.”

When she shoves him back on the bed and crawls over him and he can’t get it up it’s absolutely only because Maya talks too much and he’s drunk too much and nothing to do with the fact that once he started earlier he now can’t stop thinking about Rebecca and the stubborn sting of her rejection, the fog of the alcohol no longer doing any good at keeping that particular hollow ache at bay. 

He grits his teeth and ignores the pricking sensation in his already bloodshot eyes. This has already been an embarrassing enough hit to his ego. He’s not going to cry as well.

*

Maya falls asleep halfway through administering the world’s most ineffectual hand-job and Nathaniel slips quietly from the bed, oddly relieved.

He passes out on her couch and when he wakes in the morning it’s to Maya looming over him in a fluffy robe—impressive, given her stature—her arms crossed haughtily over her chest.

She’s wearing her glasses again, and it’s oddly comforting despite the circumstances.

“There’s a bunch of rolled up bills on my coffee table. Did we do cocaine in my living room last night?”

“No,” Nathaniel says, waving his hand dismissively and trying to ignore the pounding in his temples as he sits up. “I mean, we thought about it. You wanted to practice rolling twenties just in case. But that’s as far as we got. Drank a lot of schnapps, though.”

She tugs her robe tighter around her with one hand, holding up his dress shirt in the other.

“Did we…?”

“Also no,” he supplies flatly. “Not for lack of trying, but it was probably for the best.”

She gingerly hands him back his shirt and he takes it, avoiding her eyes as he slides it over his shoulders and diffidently does up the buttons.

He realises he never asked her what exactly she had going on that had sent her off on her own personal spiral in the first place. He’s satisfied he didn’t, and still doesn’t want to.

He clears his throat.

“So if we could just never talk about this whole thing ever—and I  _do_ meanever—again, that would be great.”

*

He pats her awkwardly on the head as he leaves.


	7. things you said I wish you hadn't

They both stand in the doorway to the room, regarding the queen sized bed at the centre of it with a mix of horror and dismay.

“Oh no, it’s the sharing a bed trope.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing,” Maya gulps, pushing her glasses up her nose.

Nathaniel can’t be surprised, not really. Not after the day he’s had.

George had been otherwise indisposed, Maya had been begging to be entrusted with greater responsibilities for months now and he’d been in too much of hurry to consider the implications of spending two days alone with her on a last minute business trip—something that seemed to have escaped her notice, too, until roughly seven minutes into the car ride when  _Time of Your Life_ had come on the radio and she’d widened her eyes at him, jerked backwards in her seat and fallen uncharacteristically silent.

The aircon had stopped working twenty minutes in and the car had broken down completely after forty. Which had left them stranded on the side of the road with a busted radiator somewhere just outside of Riverside on one of the hottest days of the year with a two hour wait for a mechanic and every hotel in a ten mile radius booked out because of a Tamale festival of all things.

“This is so awkward turtle,” she babbles as she follows him across the threshold, the wheels of their respective cases trundling loudly along the tile. “This definitely isn’t supposed to happen to me. It should be Rebecca—she’s undeniably the leading lady in our law office sitcom. Though we  _are_ technically a classic example of UST, so maybe this storyline isn’t so out of left field after all.”

His throat tightens against his will at the mention of Rebecca, and he manages to channel the surge of bristling energy into an exasperated glare. “Excuse me?”

“Unresolved sexual tension. You know—there was that one time you came back to my apartment and we almost had sexual intercourse but didn’t because you—”

“ _What_ did I say about mentioning that?”

“…don’t?” Maya offers meekly, then adds off his expectantly raised eyebrows, “…ever?”

Nathaniel grunts and drops his messenger bag down on the bed.

“Oh, you’re a traditionalist, then. That makes sense.”

“What are you babbling on about now?”

She drags her pilot case around to the opposite side and stows away the handle. “Caveman theory? I read all about it in this month’s  _Bustle_. Traditionally speaking, men are inclined to sleep closest to the door in order to place themselves between their bedmate and any possible intruders.”

“Well then,” he says derisively, widening his eyes at her, “you’re welcome.”

Before she can elaborate further, he fishes through his bag for a change of clothes, ignoring her attempt at dinner discussions and making a beeline for the bathroom to wash off the last three hours spent sans AC.

“Oh, I guess you can shower first if you—”

The click of the door latching shut cuts off the rest.

*

Maya orders a chicken salad from room service and eats it at the writing desk by the window with the TV on low while he fights with the hotel’s wifi connection from his laptop on the bed. She showers once she’s done, emerging from the bathroom in a billowing cloud of steam that has her scrubbing at her fogged up glasses with the corner of her towel.

Nathaniel glances up from the glare of his computer screen and eyes her pink satin rubber ducky pyjamas with thinly veiled disgust.

“Really? What are you, twelve?”

“No,” she retorts as she flounces over to shove her toiletries bag back into her suitcase, “and I wasn’t packing for an audience, either.”

(There’s a brief, awkward silence where both of them can’t help but consider what packing for an audience might have looked like for longer than either of them would be comfortable to admit.)

He clears his throat and makes a halting motion with his hand. “Just—just stop talking, okay? Quit making this weirder than it already is.”

She grimaces, and Nathaniel turns his back on her to rummage through his duffel bag for a toothbrush so he doesn’t have to look at the pathetic arrangement of her features any longer.

When he finishes up in the bathroom she’s already under the covers, reading a magazine, and as he slides in beside her he checks the alarm clock on the nightstand. 8:43. It’s still early, but it’s not like there’s anything better to do and the quicker they go to sleep the quicker they can get up, get back to the car and get out of this hellhole. He switches off the overhead lights without asking and even though she’s got the bedside lamp on she seems to get the message, slowly folding the magazine closed and depositing it on the stand.

He catches her sliding off her glasses and gulps—something about the lack of black frames as a distraction has him panicking suddenly at the recollection of the last time he saw her like this, cheeks flushed pink with intoxication rather than her nighttime skincare routine, and he  _cannot_ be thinking about that night, not at all, and especially not when they’re reluctantly sharing a mattress. He’s done an exceptional job of burying the more unfortunate memories of that ill-advised encounter—her lips on his, the ears(oh god, the  _ears),_ his hands on her waist as he held her awkwardly above him, her fingers fumbling around his… well, all of it, honestly—and he’s not about to drop the ball now. Not when there’s a voice in the back of his head telling him that his sanity is currently very firmly hinged on the mental distinction somehow made possible by her wearing those glasses.

“What are you doing?” he asks abruptly, his voice pitched a little higher than he’d prefer.

She looks startled, but he’s not entirely convinced that’s not just her face. “I’m—I’m taking off my glasses? To sleep?”

“Do you really need to take those off, hmm?” Nathaniel asks, clearing his throat. “In the interest of professionalism?”

“I don’t—”

“I’m just saying—what if there’s an emergency in the middle of the night and we need to evacuate?”

“They’d just be on the nightstand, so—”

“And waste valuable time fumbling for them?” He feigns incredulity, eyebrows raised as he looks down at where his hands smooth over the bedspread with a sniff. “Okay, if that’s the risk you’re willing to take.”

Maya looks like she’s about to cry from confusion. “I—I guess, I could leave them on?”

“Probably smart.”

He watches her out of the corner of his eye as she bemusedly pushes the frames back up her nose and lies very stiffly on her back, face tilted awkwardly upwards, blankets pulled up near her chin.

Satisfied, he eases down into a full recline and turns on his side, facing away from her. Nothing about this situation is ideal, but that doesn’t mean he can’t control it. Can’t keep it from being any weirder than it has to be.

*

When the alarm goes off in the morning he blinks awake to find Maya already upright in the bed, the muted light creeping in through the paper-thin curtains highlighting the red creases and forlorn look on her bleary-eyed face as she stares (albeit unfocusedly) down at the broken glasses where they lay in her lap.

She wears them anyway, and doesn’t say a word to him the entire drive home.


	8. funny when you wager how you feel

“Dude, I was rooting for you. You owe me five hundred dollars.”

“Excuse me?”

He wants to ask how she even know where he lives, but Heather pushes right on past him into the apartment, not bothering to acknowledge the question or wait for a formal invitation. She makes it over to his bookcase before she spins on her heel to look at him. 

“The betting pool? The dates? I emptied both of my piggy banks for you. That was my hot tub savings. You basically owe me a hot tub.”

As she stops to properly survey her surroundings for the first time, Nathaniel feels an embarrassed flush prickle up the back of his neck at the state of his living room. Since Rebecca left he hasn’t exactly been expecting company, but things aren’t anywhere near up to his usually impeccable personal standards, either.

“Wo-ow. So, I can’t believe this is your apartment. Aren’t you supposed to be, like, a fancy senior partner at a law firm, or something? And this is how you live? Is this what you think of yourself?”

He rolls his eyes, swinging the door shut when it becomes apparent she isn’t planning on leaving any time soon. “Ha ha. I suppose I deserve that.”

“It’s just that, I don’t know—people that respect themselves usually don’t usually throw their fast food wrappers on the ground when they’re done with them. Or, like, when they’ve had a single mouthful and remembered they don’t eat bread or cheese,” she amends, nudging the abandoned burger gingerly with her toe. When she glances back up at him her face softens unexpectedly into a sympathetic grimace. “You’re like, really bummed, huh? I’ve seen you throw fries on the floor once before.”

He hand waves the disaster zone. “I started to deal with my very messy, human, Rebecca-related emotions the only way I usually know how. And then I decided I don’t want to do that anymore.”

“Okay,” Heather says, humming, eyes narrowed in playful suspicion. “Then what _are_ you gonna do? Because not to be insensitive, but there may or may not still be stakes riding on the fallout of this whole giant mess, and I’d really rather not wait around until you’re sixty five to find out.”

“Huh?”

“Ugh, don’t worry about it,” she’s quick to dismiss with a long-suffering sigh. “I don’t want to get forced into a forfeit for interference. But for what it’s worth, I lived with Rebecca for two years. I’m not sure I understand the hype, personally. She never empties the dishwasher _and_ she flushes her tampons. I think you dodged a bullet.”

She throws herself down on the couch so forcefully she bounces with the momentum of it, leaning deep into the cushions as if to test them and stretching her long, muscular arms out across the backrest. 

“By all means,” Nathaniel says. “Make yourself at home.”

“Oh, I will.” She swings her feet up onto the coffee table, glancing pointedly at the pizza box they’re resting on when he opens his mouth to protest. “Seriously though. Are you okay? I feel like maybe I should ask if you’re okay, since you’re like this brand new person with all these emotions and stuff.”

“Honestly?” he asks, and she gestures in the affirmative. “I don’t know. I’m not really sleeping well. I can’t focus on my work. I thought it was all the indecision, and that it would go away once I got an answer, but…” He massages his forehead. “I don’t think it’s because of Rebecca. At least, not entirely. I don’t know how else to describe it other than I feel… restless.”

“Maybe you should get out of town while this whole thing blows over and people go back to minding their own business. Book a vacation, or something. It kind of seemed like you were always trying to run off to Rome or Hawaii or wherever else it is they have hotels I can’t afford to, like, breathe the lobby air of.”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t actually want to go to Rome, or Hawaii. I’ve seen all those places before. I just wanted to be with Rebecca—I wanted to spend time with her.”

“Okay, well, that admittedly very sweet option is sort of off the table now, but there must be someplace you would like to go, or that you haven’t been.” Her eyes widen and her mouth forms an ‘o’ shape that he thinks must be her version of excited. “Do you want to throw darts at a map of the world? I totally have darts.”

Almost as quickly as her interest flared, her attention is back on his bookcase again, and Nathaniel sighs as she pushes up onto her knees, the eyelets of her boots scraping the leather as she leans across the arm rest to reach for a spine that’s caught her eye. She flips disinterestedly through one of his law books before discarding it beside her and replacing it with an expensive pictorial on Cuban architecture.

“When White Josh broke up with Darryl he went to Mexico to, like, hammer out all his feelings,” she says, smoothing out the dust jacket. “And then he came back with a dog. Maybe you should do the same.”

“Well, I do _hablo español,_ ” he concedes.

Heather raises her eyebrows. “ _Enhorabeuna_. I also attended high school. Most of the time.”

He shakes his head. “No, I’m… reasonably fluent, actually. A little rusty, probably, but more than enough to get by.”

“Well, that’s a start. And since you clearly don’t have much experience with flights of fancy, I’m going to let you in on a little secret: Google.”

“Google?” he echoes, dubious. “I’m not convinced that’s a secret.”

“I’m serious. You gotta start Googling.”

“Googling what, exactly?”

“Whatever pops into your head. Like, after I watched The Hunger Games, I thought about J-Law looking all fine in her post-apocalyptic outfit, or whatever, and I said to myself—I could work a bow. So I opened my laptop and Googled ‘how do I become a champion level bowman in the short period of time before the Ren Faire arrives?’ which led me to discovering the archery unit at my community college, and here we are. It’s kind of like rapid-fire association, but you have to fully commit to going down the rabbit hole. And then you just keep clicking, and searching, and researching things obsessively until suddenly it’s three days later and you have seventy two tabs open and a new Pinterest account because you forgot the password to the last one. It’s Wilbur,” she adds. “The password is always Wilbur.”

“Sounds chaotic,” Nathaniel quips.

“It is, but it’s also very therapeutic.” Heather stretches, catlike, and pushes back up onto her feet. “I want to give you some secondhand advice here, but I don’t want to mention the name of the person it originally came from, because your face is going to start doing the drippy thing again, so I’m just gonna call them… Hebecca.”

Nathaniel raises his eyebrows. “Darryl’s daughter gave you advice?” he asks dryly. “Wow. I wasn’t aware she was forming sentences yet.”

“Uh-huh—she’s super advanced for a baby, and I’m giving my womb _all_ the credit for her infinite wisdom.” She pats her stomach, and he can’t help it—he huffs out a laugh as she carries on. “When Paula was feeling dissatisfied with how things were going down at her fancy new job, _Hebecca_ told her she should ask for more. That she should bet on herself.” Heather’s mouth twists. “You should bet on yourself.”

“I did bet on myself,” he points out. “Both of us did, remember? And we both lost. Hundreds of dollars. Thousands, even.”

She tilts her head at him. “Okay, so I’ll admit that probably wasn’t the best phrasing to use, in retrospect. But I don’t mean, like, literally bet on yourself. I mean, you have to decide you deserve the things you want. But not in a gross, rich, white privilege way—in a way that means you have look inside yourself and make some tough decisions about what you want your life to look like, whether certain people are in it or not. You can’t control what choices other people make. But you’re the one that has to live with yours.”

He glances over at the couch she just vacated, where Rebecca had sat across from him only yesterday, quietly apologetic but simultaneously so self-assured. He remembers the way he’d felt at peace with it before she’d even started speaking. How strangely calming it had been, seeing her settled and suddenly sure of herself, in the midst of all this pervasive indecision.

“That is… a solid assessment, actually. You only get one life, right?”

“For the record, I charge by the half hour and accept payment in the form of hot tubs.” Heather considers him for a moment longer, then crosses her arms over her chest. “Do you want to get out of here? I could take you for a spin in my new Honda Civic. You’re basically its honorary godparent, or something.”

“Like a date?” he asks wearily.

“Ugh, dude—gross, no. I’m _married_ ,” she says, flashing her ring finger at him. “You were _there_.”

He rolls his eyes. “I was being facetious. But no thanks—I’m good. I need to clean up in here. Open some windows.”

“That,” Heather says, eyes sweeping the room, “is probably a wise decision, because it smells like the Home Base back room in here and not in a good way.”

“Is there a good way?”

“Well, yeah. I’m surprisingly still partial to when they’re cooking chilli fries.” She leans over, extending her arms in their entirety and keeping her body as far away from his as possible while allowing her palms to rest on his shoulders. “You are valid, kiddo,” she says, squeezing him awkwardly and thumbing his nose in a way that makes him scrunch up his whole face and flinch. “For things other than your bank account and strong jawline. Just in case nobody’s ever told you that. But also, I _will_ be expecting reimbursement for your romantic shortcomings, so the bank account is a definite plus.”

Once Heather is gone he thinks about the person that never told him that in so many words but certainly made him feel it, and after flicking it open and closed a few times he shuts the ring box, rubs his thumb along the velvety seam one last time and pushes it away.

He pauses with his fingers over the keys, then hesitantly types in _animals AND law AND spanish_ into the text box; just because he’s being self-indulgent doesn’t mean he has to completely abandon Boolean operators.

The returns are fairly broad so after a moment's consideration he amends the search to _zoo AND law AND spanish speaking countries._

He hovers the cursor over the link to the San Diego Zoo’s donation page before his gaze catches a couple of results down on a site for zoology and wildlife internships, and suddenly, for the first time in awhile, finally something clicks.

 


End file.
